


Bloody Wonders

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood and Gore, Child Death, Conspiracy, Courtroom Drama, Crime, Dark, Dark Draco Malfoy, Dark Hermione Granger, F/F, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Horror, Law Enforcement, Lawyer Hermione Granger, Murder, Older Characters, Remix, Revenge, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-10 05:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20522618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: Falsely convicted of a triple homicide, Draco Malfoy swears vengeance on all responsible for his imprisonment. After escaping Azkaban, his first target is his advocate, Hermione Granger.Alone and lonely, her budding career destroyed by a concocted scandal, Hermione has equal cause for retribution. Moreover, she has the means to achieve it.Together, the pair will reap the justice that has eluded them for thirty years.The "Sweeney Todd" remix no one asked for, but I am all-too-happy to deliver.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> My sincerest thanks to my beta, eilonwy, for her super-human turnaround time, kind words, and willingness to take my fic on _in addition to_ beta-ing two others and completing her own! Any remaining errors are my own.
> 
> Thank you as well to the amazing mod team, the wonderful S.O.S.: Sam, Ook, and Sam. You ladies have been so enthusiastic, helpful, understanding, and inspiring. It's been an honor to participate in this, The ULTIMATE Remix, and I know your legacy will endure. <3 
> 
> Now, to business.  
Regarding the child death warning, the most graphic stuff is in the Prologue, then another little bit in Chapter 1.

_Speak to me, friend_  
_ Whisper, I’ll listen_  
_ I know, I know, you’ve been locked out of sight_  
_ All these years, like me, my friend_  
_ Well I’ve come home to find you waiting_  
_ Home, and we’re together_  
_ And we’ll do **wonders**_  
_Won’t we?_

* * *

Three broken dolls on a verdant hill.

That was the scene as viewed from Malfoy Manor’s tallest tower, sterilized by distance and dawn’s hazy glow.

As the mist evaporated into a temperate morning, finer details emerged.

Porcelain faces haloed by golden blonde hair. Dew-dampened dresses of identical blue clinging to budding breasts and curveless waists, white lace frayed and dirt-stained at knobby knees. Skin pale where it should have been aglow with youth’s rosy flush. Expressions frozen in soft repose, a stark contrast to their bodies’ rictus, caught in the grip of rigor mortis.

The girls were beautiful, perfect, save for their cut throats. The cuts were clean, almost surgical, and deep enough to have slashed the larynx, revealing white, cartilaginous rings beneath graying flesh. Later, the coroner’s measurements confirmed the obvious consistency: the length of the incisions was proportional to the size of the neck. The same spell was used on all three girls.

There was no blood.

Astoria Malfoy discovered them first. She dismounted her broomstick and, upon seeing their necks, did not bother checking for a pulse. She vomited, collapsing to heave and spit, curling her fingers into the grass and soil as if to keep her rooted. She wiped her mouth on the back of her sleeve—she would burn the blouse later—and wrapped a dirty hand around her wand.

She had only ever been capable of an incorporeal Patronus, and the one she sent to the Ministry was especially weak. It took hours to arrive. The message it carried was spare with details, but dire enough for Gawain Robards to dispatch a team.

Investigators noted the communication delay with interest. Why not use her broom? Why not fly to Malfoy Manor and fire-call the Ministry? But Astoria had a gentle soul: she could not bear to leave the girls alone on the hill. Already, they were attracting insects. She conjured a breeze to keep them at bay, a decision that would become the subject of fierce debate during the trial. The Physical Trace team relied partially on insect activity to determine time of death. The disruption of natural processes resulted in less precision. The key question: was Astoria’s decision born of malice, or simple ignorance?

Her husband’s absence was also noted. Draco Malfoy was an alternative answer to the broom-and-Floo question, and Astoria’s insubstantial Patronus could have travelled to him much faster, as lead detective Jason Hayes was quick to point out. Under private questioning, he learned the truth: Draco had not been indisposed, as his wife had so politely put it. He had been insensible. Unconscious. Knocked out and hung over from a night of heavy drinking.

A night spent away from Malfoy Manor.

Suspicion naturally fell on those with access to the estate. The three girls, identified later that day as the Nilsson sisters (Marta, eleven; Helene, eight; Sofi, four; barely survived by their parents, Josef, 46, and Karolin, 44), were Muggle residents of Wiltshire, the mixed-ability community where the Malfoy family had lived for centuries.

The non-magical community had grown over time, and the manor’s residents had adapted, adding charms and wards to separate themselves from those they considered undesirable. After the search warrant was approved and executed, the property’s Ward Register confirmed it: Muggles could not get within one mile of Malfoy Manor’s property line without the Muggle-Repelling Charms activating. When added to the absence of blood evidence at the scene, investigators were sure that the Nilsson sisters had been killed off-site, brought onto the property, and staged.

If the murders had happened just two years before, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement might have pinned the whole thing on an ailing Lucius Malfoy and closed the case. But Lucius was dead, Narcissa had lived in France since his passing, and Draco had inherited everything. He and Astoria were the manor’s only residents.

Astoria provided an instant alibi. She handed her appointments diary to investigators, rattled off her sister Daphne’s Floo address, and gave a full accounting of the shops and restaurants the two had visited throughout the previous day, each claim confirmed by receipts or eyewitnesses of unquestionable credibility. In the evening, the sisters had split a bottle of wine and fallen asleep, sharing a bed like they had when they were girls. Daphne submitted sworn testimony that Astoria had not woken in the night (though, skeptics and, later, the defense counsel argued, neither had Daphne.)

All of this established before her husband had even seen the morning sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epigraph is a verse from the song “My Friends,” which was written by Stephen Sondheim.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco’s head pounded in time to the fist on his bedroom door. He was halfway to it, robe hanging open, when the first patrolman burst through, wand drawn. Groggy, confused, but not stupid, Draco put his hands up and sank to his knees. They wrenched his arms behind his back, his shoulders unusually stiff. An errant, unvoiced question ran through his mind: what had he done last night to make his body hurt this way?

They confiscated his wand. Side-Alonged him to London. Transported him into the Ministry via a back entrance he did not know existed and down a dark stairwell to Level Two. They untied him and left him in a room the size of a large broom closet or a small storage shed, into which they had squeezed a table, two chairs, a wall clock, and an Ever-Filling glass of water. By then, Draco was sober enough to realize he was in trouble.

After three hours and several glasses of water, he was fully sober and furious.

He began to pace.

An hour later, the door opened. A broad-shouldered man with a graying beard and tired blue eyes tossed Draco a pair of too-large joggers and a black t-shirt. He closed the door and sat, his back firm against the chair rails, hands folded in his lap. They stared at each other in silence. The man gave the clothes in Draco’s hands a significant look, eyebrows raised in a question. After a moment of quiet debate, Draco shrugged his robe to the floor, pulled on the musty garments, and sat.

He itched to ask a question. To gain even the faintest inkling of what he was doing locked in a conference room for four hours on a Sunday morning. But this, unlike the clothes, felt like a battle worth winning. It felt important not to break the silence, so he set his jaw, mirrored the man’s relaxed pose, and waited.

Eventually, the man sighed. He leaned forward and set his forearms on the table.

“Talking to me is in your best interests, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Who are you?”

“Jason Hayes, Lead Detective, Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” He flipped his badge, a quick, practiced motion that displayed no more than a flash of gold and the sketch of a shield.

“Why am I being detained?”

Hayes’ mouth flattened, lines ringing the corners. Poorly suppressed pain. Theatrics, Draco thought, until the detective pulled a photo from the air.

It took a moment to register what he saw. For his mind to wrap itself around the sight of dead children arranged in a three-pointed star, stockinged feet spread wider than hips, toes nearly touching. Draco’s chair toppled to the floor. He pressed himself against the far wall, putting whatever distance he could between himself and the perversion Hayes had set before him.

“What the fuck is this?”

Hayes pulled another photo from the ether. Instead of setting it on the table, he levitated it, setting it to hover a foot before Draco’s face. Draco shut his eyes, but too late. The horror was there, burned into his brain, an image to haunt his nights: a young child’s face, her neck a bloodless ruin.

“Take it away.”

Nausea surged over his fury and roiled in his gut. The gentle _shush_ of paper-on-paper prompted him to open his eyes. The photos were gone. Draco leaned against the wall, breathing hard.

“We need to know what happened to these three little girls, Mr. Malfoy. If you tell me what you know, if you tell me _right now_, I can help you. But the minute I leave this room?” Hayes stood. Though they were of a height, the detective towered over him, commanding and insistent. “What will it be, Mr. Malfoy?”

The previous night was a blank space, a gaping hole Draco could not fill. He had stayed home; that felt right. He had had a cocktail. More than one? Then nothing. Not stumbling up the stairs to his and Astoria’s shared bedroom. Not stripping down or crawling into bed. Not a single dream, until he woke to this nightmare with a sore body and Ministry agents breaking down his door.

Draco licked his lips.

“I’d like to speak with an advocate.”

“You’re well within your rights to do so,” Hayes said with a tight smile. “If you can find one who’ll take you.” 

* * *

Draco smelled Hermione Granger before he saw her. He should have been used to it. He had seen her every day for the past two weeks, and weekly for the four months prior to that. Yet he still closed his eyes and inhaled.

Apple trees grew on the eastern side of Malfoy Manor. The orchard was small, consisting of a few varietals that provided fruit throughout the autumn. The trees were ancient, gnarled things cared for by elves who had aged to look like their charges. It was mid-September now: the James Grieves would be ready for picking. He could almost see the yellow-green skin, streaked pink where the sun had shone between the leaves. Could almost taste the sharp-but-sweet juice and feel the pear-like texture against his tongue.

Almost.

But the smell? Hermione brought that with her. The crisp of leaves, the depth of soil, the sweetness of fruit, the brightness of sky. She was the summer he had missed while locked away, a reminder that the seasons turned, even though his life had crashed to a standstill.

Since his arrest in May, Draco had known nothing but the seven-by-seven-meter cell of the Ministry Detention Area. He had seen no sunlight except for the charmed facsimile provided by Magical Maintenance on his rare visits to her _ad hoc_ office on Level Two. He had breathed no fresh air save for what she had carried with her, caught in the rings of her curls.

“Are you okay?”

Her hand brushed his, and he opened his eyes to look at her frankly. She flushed, realizing the misstep, though it was a normal question for anyone who had not been accused of a triple homicide.

“This isn’t the end,” she assured him. “Regardless of today’s verdict, we have the appeals process, and I’m going to try to persuade the judge to reopen discovery. I only had three weeks before the prosecution stonewalled me, and I just heard of a German research team who thinks it may be possible to pull wand signatures from property wards.”

“You make it sound like I’ve already lost.”

“I’ve learned to prepare for the worst.”

Draco faced forward, his unfocused stare settling on the empty magistrate’s bench.

The worst. Difficult to fathom what that would entail.

Maybe the worst would have been being tried under the Ministry’s old laws, locked in a cage before the full Wizengamot without an advocate or witnesses or objective evidence. Gratitude felt strange, especially since Kingsley Shacklebolt—former leader of the Order of the Phoenix and _de facto_ Minister after Voldemort’s fall—had not been measured in his pursuit of justice. Though the captured Death Eaters had received trials more impartial than they deserved, their sentences were harsh: life in Azkaban without the possibility of parole.

Twelve years ago, Draco had gotten lucky, exculpated by the very trio he had tormented through school.

Maybe he could get lucky again.

“Their evidence is circumstantial at best,” Hermione continued, voice low and reassuring. “Nothing from the Priori Incantatem, nothing from the Veritaserum. We went over every _inch_ of the manor and didn’t find a single trace of physical evidence. No witnesses could place you in Wiltshire that night.”

Their eyes met.

She had not been his first choice.

Frayser, Sladek, and Rue were. The three, two-bit lawyers from the United States had seen an opportunity during the years of criminal justice reform and grabbed hold with both hands. Their nascent firm had defended all the Death Eaters. Unsuccessfully, of course, but they had never intended to win. _Daily Prophet_ reporters covered the trials without cease, splashed the firm’s name and photos all over the front page, and stood shivering in the London rain just to catch them for a question or two. In 1999, they were the best courtroom advocates in wizarding London because they were the _only_ courtroom advocates in wizarding London.

The former remained true; the latter had changed.

Another opportunist had opened a university, and many enterprising graduates of Sondheim’s School of Civil and Criminal Law had opened their own firms. The Ministry, too, began hiring, nestling their advocates first under the Wizengamot Administration Services then, due to budgetary conflicts, spinning it off as its own, oft-confused department: the Wizengamot Advocacy Services.

The Ministry’s advocates were considered average, avaricious, and ambitious. In short, not to be trusted. The best of Sondheim’s School were recruited by Frayser, Sladek, and Rue, and the other privately owned firms specialized so as not to compete with them. Then, there were the public defenders. Do-gooders who thought they could change the world, one injustice at a time. Scorned for their idealism, mocked for their willingness to work for comparatively nonexistent pay, and discussed with impolite surprise when they managed a win.

The Ministry did not take public cases; that option was out, not that Draco had wanted it anyway. His distrust of authority ran deep and for good reason.

Frayser, Sladek, and Rue had offered their services to what remained of the grieving Nilsson family; they would have been foolish to decline it. Due to the obvious conflict of interest, the firm had rejected Draco’s case and the Gringotts’ vault of Galleons that came with it.

The other advocacy firms were too inexperienced in criminal law to be of much use. Self-representation would have been a cheaper path to the same, guilty end.

Draco’s only hope for a real defense was through a public defender.

Hermione was the only one brave enough to try.

“Do you think I did it?”

He had promised himself never to ask. He had not wanted to know at first, but this was the end of it. The magistrate would deliver his judgment, and Draco wanted the truth as she saw it. Did she fight for him out of obligation, or did he deserve her effort?

The door next to the magistrate’s bench swung open. Activity swept through the courtroom like a breeze, bringing attendees to their feet.

Her gaze did not flicker, eyes warm and firm with conviction.

“No.”

Hermione stood, straightening her charcoal grey robes. Draco remained seated, stunned. He wondered at her impassive expression, neutral, like she had not given him a one-word reason to hope.

Then she looked down at him. Far from impassivity, Hermione’s eyes simmered, a blaze more akin to a religious zealot than a courtroom advocate. She believed that the court system could be fair, that it delivered true justice instead of a simple validation of public opinion. His case was a crucible for that belief. A test.

He stood, too.

“The Honorable Bas Rietveld,” the Court Scribe announced.

Rietveld entered and took his seat. The courtroom attendees followed. The judge cleared his throat.

“For two weeks, we have heard the case brought against Draco Lucius Malfoy on behalf of Josef and Karolin Nilsson. The prosecution has supplied ample evidence of Mr. Malfoy’s dark past, a close association with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and a deep-seated hatred for those of mixed and non-magical descent.”

Hermione shifted. She had argued the admissibility of the prosecution’s character evidence, citing the intervening twelve years and, when the judge struck that down, the favorable verdict rendered in his previous trial. But the prosecution had argued that the past evidence provided current motive, and Rietveld had let it stand.

“We have learned of a man existing in isolation. Distant from his wife and family, set apart from his peers, and voluntarily restricted to a residence that houses Dark artefacts, many of which researchers just one floor above us have yet to quantify.”

A sharp exhale. Hermione had tried to get that evidence tossed, too. Illegal search and seizure. It had almost worked, until they learned that Astoria—his beautiful, sweet, well-meaning, dim-witted wife—had given Magical Law Enforcement explicit permission to look wherever they thought might be helpful.

“We have seen the photos and read the coroner’s report. The cruelty and brutality of these acts prove that they were committed by a man who has lost touch with humanity.”

Rietveld paused to look Draco square.

“In our justice system, it is the prosecution who bears the burden of proof. That burden has been met. I therefore find Mr. Malfoy guilty on three charges of murder in the first degree. He will be sentenced to three life terms in Azkaban, to be served concurrently, without the possibility of parole.”

The room around him tilted. Hermione’s hand clamped around his arm, keeping him steady.

“Ms. Granger, you will surrender his wand.”

Without looking, Hermione reached into her bag and withdrew Draco’s wand. Hawthorn and unicorn tail hair. Ten inches. Spartan in design and snapped in an instant. Fine, white powder shimmered in the courtroom’s light, the core disintegrating upon contact with the air. Something within him broke, too. He felt hollow.

“Guards?”

Hermione put both hands on his shoulders and turned him to face her, talking low and fast.

“Malfoy? Malfoy, listen to me. This isn’t the end. We have the appeal. They want an answer, someone to blame, and you’re convenient. We’ll keep fighting them.”

“You’re fired, Granger.”

She froze.

“_What_?”

A guard pulled him away. A second one joined him, walking on either side.

“One moment, gentlemen.”

The prosecutor stepped from behind the bench.

Blaise Zabini. The best advocate in London. Poached by Frayser, Sladek, and Rue in his third year at Sondheim’s. Rumored to become a partner by the time he turned forty.

“Sorry about that, mate.”

Hatred curdled Draco’s stomach.

“We were never mates.”

Distant allies for a time, maybe, but only when it suited. Blaise had always had an agenda, his fleeting loyalty motivated by what he could gain. If he had already won, then the alliance was no longer worth maintaining. His self-interest was legendary, even for a Slytherin.

Blaise scoffed, his striking blue eyes sparkling with mirth.

“No need for all that. I’ll take good care of Astoria for you.”

Draco lunged. The guards yanked him back, but not before his head smashed into Blaise’s nose. A satisfying crunch. A cry of pain. Blood trickled down Blaise’s lips as he staggered.

“Enjoy Azkaban,” he said with a snarl.

The guards jerked Draco away, steering him toward the detention area door.

It was all over now. No hope for a future. No chance of release. Only hatred, the rage of false imprisonment burning hot in the hollow of his chest.

The Wizengamot. Old politicians. Sensitive, prejudicial fools unable to see past their own periscoped view of the world.

The _Daily Prophet_. Lavender _fucking_ Brown, skewering him with an acidic Quick Quotes Quill with all the wretched aplomb of the defunct Rita Skeeter, turning public opinion against him despite the evidence.

Hermione Granger. She had advised against Draco taking the stand in his own defense. Argued that _burden of proof_ bullshite, implying that he would have been a liability. He had not spoken a single word in defense of himself. Not one word.

As they carted him off to Azkaban, Petrified and Silenced, his wand snapped, dressed in the striped prison jumpsuit that he would wear for the remainder of his life, Draco became the man they thought he was.

Draco became a killer, and he swore vengeance on them all.


	3. Chapter 3

_30 Years Later…_

The trembling started in Hermione’s fingers. 

Subtle, at first, evidenced by a glint of silver: the sway of the single strand of unicorn tail hair as it reflected her workroom’s ample light. At present, the tremble was little cause for concern, but the clock had started. 

She readjusted her grip, loosening her fingers a fraction. A fraction too far; the core slipped out of alignment with the wood shaft. She tensed her quivering grip and grimaced, determined. 

Infusion was the worst step of wand-making. More time consuming than selecting the core materials, more physically draining than hollowing and carving the shafts, and more sensitive than either. Core selection and shaft design were by their nature subjective. They composed the art of wand-making. Infusion, however, was the science. Precision was paramount. Anything less than perfection meant failure: a waste of time, materials, effort and, ultimately, lost profits. 

Half of the core had disappeared into the shaft when her wrist buckled. She had felt it coming—the reduction in grip strength expected after a lifetime of flicking, swishing, rolling, and waving, all without a single thought for the ergonomic cost—and had brought her left hand up as a brace. She transferred the weight to her elbow, using her forearm as a prop. Just a few minutes left, surely. 

The ache in her shoulder crept into her neck. Less than a centimeter of silver poked from the tip of the in-progress wand. She clenched her jaw and held on. Held still. 

At last, the new wand’s tip sparked gold, and Hermione let herself go, slumping across her workbench with a moan, her wand rolling away from numb fingers. Her right arm shook, the muscles taxed and burning. Fifteen years ago, three Infusions a day had been nothing. At 62, it was all she had. 

At least this one had worked. 

She fumbled for the virgin wand with her left hand and closed her eyes. It felt good. The stolid oak, smoothed, shaped, but featuring no design, acted as a foil for the more rambunctious core. Though Hermione had not met the donor unicorn, her supplier had shared the harrowing story of the tail hair’s harvest, involving a chase through a briar patch and several deep puddles. 

Hermione opened her eyes and pushed herself to seated. The wand hardly swayed when she balanced it on her finger, right where the hilt met the blade. 

“_Lumos_.” 

The simple charm was the first cast with all her wands. Even left-handed, the result was promising. Eyes narrowed against the white light, she ended the spell with a nonverbal _Nox_. 

One for her premium collection, then. A rare, decent wand among an assortment of shite ones. She set it back onto its stand and rested her head on her arms, trying not to think about it. Her life’s many mistakes were better considered over a tumbler of gin, and she did not think she could manage the staircase quite yet. She closed her eyes. 

The bell above her shop door chimed, interrupting her doze. Her lower back seized as she sat, and she winced at the clock. Six p.m. Closing time. She would shoo this customer out and hobble upstairs to numb her pain. 

She climbed gingerly off the stool, stretched, and pushed aside the heavy wool curtain that separated her workroom from the shop. 

The stranger stood inside the threshold, tall and lean. His hem of his natty grey robe hung several inches above the ground, revealing bare feet and broken toenails, his skin so coated with grime that it was impossible to guess its color. 

“We’re closed,” she said, not bothering to hide her annoyance. 

The man said nothing and turned to perform a slow circuit of her shop. She crossed her arms and watched; he was not the most unusual customer she had had over the years. Her shop was a favorite of criminals and sentient beings the Ministry had declared unworthy of wand magic. As hags were shorter, she guessed the man belonged to the former category. 

He stopped at the middle shelf of the shop’s long wall, where one of her premium creations sat on a display stand. Long fingers, delicate, moving with the memory of lost elegance, extended from the frayed edge of his sleeve. He brushed them over the glass display case, leaving clear streaks where he had disturbed the dust. The exploration continued beyond the case, his fingers trailing over stacked boxes of crudely cut wands, as if looking for one that called to him. 

“It doesn’t work like that,” she snapped. “The wand has to choose _you_. And I don’t appreciate you coming in at closing just to finger my wares. Get out and come back tomorrow. I open at nine.” 

“Who makes these?” His voice was low and hoarse, as if he had spent the last several years either silent or screaming. 

“The elves I have chained up in the back,” she answered in a deadpan. 

The man paused, surprised, and turned his shadowed face toward her. The well of his hood was deep, but not deep enough to hide the tip of a pale, pointed chin. 

Hermione straightened. 

“I do.” Before she could stop herself, she included her shop’s unofficial but unquestionably true motto. “They’re the worst wands in London.” 

“Do they work?” 

She shrugged. “Most of the time.” 

“How much?” 

“Too much for you, and I’m _closed_. Come back tomorrow.” 

“I don’t _have_ a tomorrow.” 

Hermione did her best to toss her hair, the graying curls having lost their spring and grown brittle over time. Though her every instinct screamed not to, she turned her back on him, walking around the L-shaped counter to lock up the till. 

“We all have a tomorrow,” she said. 

“You don’t.” 

He was behind her in an instant, an arm clamped around her shoulders and chest, hauling her backwards. The top line of her hips slammed against the counter’s overhang, shooting pain through her legs and torso. He continued to wrench. Her shoulders ground against his chest; her back screamed in an unnatural arc; her legs overextended as she tried to keep the tips of her toes in contact with the shop’s scuffed floor. 

She grabbed onto his arm to relieve the pressure, her fingers instinctively scrabbling for purchase, for some square of skin to rake or pinch in order to win her freedom. Chest heaving with painful breaths, Hermione fought that instinct back. She steadied her hands, but kept them on his arm, pushing down to lift herself up. The cool kiss of metal met her neck. 

“Lower your hands.” 

She spread her fingers wide and obeyed, setting her palms on the countertop. With the improved leverage, she pushed up to set her rear on the counter and craned her head back to look beneath his hood. 

“So it is you,” she whispered, swallowing under the blade at her throat. “Draco Malfoy.” 

He jostled her, and the knife bit. A warm thread of blood wound its way down her neck and into the collar of her old jumper. Tired, she rested her head against his chest. His heartbeat was steady and strong. 

“That man is dead.” 

Hermione’s laugh was strained. “Not from where I’m standing.” 

Draco pressed the knife more firmly against her neck. The knick widened, the bead of blood became a trickle. She breathed through the pain. 

“I know why you’re here,” she said, “and I’m not going to fight. Your life was stolen from you. I was a part of that.” 

“Thirty years,” he growled. “My fortune. My wife. My wand.” 

“Three out of four.” 

Draco’s grip across her shoulders tightened. “What?” 

“Three out of four. Seventy-five percent. Do you want to guess which one you still have?” 

The knife cut a little deeper. 

“How?” 

“A Gemino charm. I cast it at the Ministry when I was examining the evidence connected with your case. They left me alone with it.” She huffed a derisive laugh. “The fools.” 

“Why?” 

“I had a feeling.” 

“_Where_?” 

“Let me go,” Hermione said, trying not to sound as desperate and terrified as she was starting to feel. The adrenaline was fading, and a death threat dripped down her neck. “I’ll show you. I’ll _help_ you. We want the same thing.” She craned her head to look at him again, his knife scraping down her neck and taking a layer of skin with it. “_Revenge_.” 

A sharp inhale interrupted his steady heartbeat. Hermione counted the seconds. A full minute elapsed before he released her. 

She eased off the counter, wincing as her cramped legs found full contact with the floor. She stretched the sleeve of her jumper over her left hand and pressed it to her bleeding neck. With her right, she withdrew her wand. A flick at the door: the deadbolt engaged with a loud, metallic clunk. A flick at the windows: flapping shades blocked the fading October twilight. A flick at the ceiling: the shop lights extinguished, dropping them into darkness as deep as night. 

“Granger.” A warning. 

“Hold out your hand.” 

A bluebell flame dropped into Draco’s open palm. What had looked elegant from afar showed abuse up close. Crooked fingers ended in uneven, broken fingernails, and a dozen fine scars traced his palms. Thin, silver-white lines that shone blue with the flame. 

“Follow me.” 

She pushed aside the divider curtain, led him past her workbench, and trudged up the rickety staircase, his footsteps light and quiet behind her. 

The stubby candles scattered around her flat flickered to life with a careless wave of her hand, illuminating her dreary little two-storey. It was located several blocks off the main Diagon thoroughfare in a true alley incongruously called Fleet Street. The footprint was small—all she could afford, considering her meager savings—but that had been okay. The ground floor had enough space for her workroom and the shop front, and the first floor accommodated a double bed, a ragged couch, a slouching bookshelf, and dingy kitchenette. Draughty, threadbare, and, at one point, full of promise. 

That was when she had still hoped for success. When she had thought that wand-making was a good option, considering no Apothecary or Potions shop would take her without a certification. When she had believed in her ability to perform the magic necessary to _create_ magic. The omens had been favorable, at first. The opening of her shop dovetailed with the closing of Ollivander’s. She found a grove of trees rife with Bowtruckles in the Forest of Dean. She connected with a wand core supplier that, in hindsight, was suspiciously cheap, but who she intended to use as a stopgap until she could go gathering on her own. 

She was adapting, making it work, and her modest flat was proof of her grit. She painted the walls a pale blue, determined to make her life worth something again. 

But then the core supplier had gone belly-up to his many creditors. And despite the books she had read and the theory she had learned, creating a wand relied more on instinct than she had anticipated, and her first attempts yielded failure after failure. Even when she had created useable wands—wands she was proud to sell—she had no money left over for advertisement, and suddenly the back-alley shop’s affordability became clearer, separated as it was from Diagon Alley’s foot traffic. 

For years, she had struggled to make ends meet. And when the pale blue paint had started to chip, she could not be bothered with it. 

“The _Prophet_ reported your escape a few weeks ago,” she said, panting. The short flight of stairs never failed to leave her breathless. “Lavender did a full profile.” 

“Brown.” A curse. 

“Blaise commented, of course, pledging the full might of Magical Law Enforcement to your recapture.” 

“_Zabini_.” 

Hermione paused to witness the hatred she so clearly heard and was disappointed to see his hood still raised. 

“Take your bloody hood down. It’s rude.” 

He did, hesitantly, and when Hermione saw his face, she understood why. 

Draco had always had a unique look, memorable if not handsome. But those features, arrogant and attractive in youth, had sharpened, and it was difficult to characterize him as anything but distinctive now. Thirty years of Azkaban would weather anyone. The deep lines at the creases of his eyes and the angles of his mouth spoke of elemental exposure, and chronic malnourishment had made his lean face skeletal. His chin, jaw, and cheekbones jutted below wan skin, accentuated by hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes. His eyes were still that unusual silver-grey and sat like matte stones beneath the shadow of his brow. None of their former light remained, and Hermione’s heart sent out one, powerful beat when she realized it. 

She knew him, then, and knew herself better, too. 

He frowned at her smile and ran a hand over his shaved head. His visage had been so striking that she just now noticed the absence of his hair, the fine, platinum blond cut so close it looked white. 

“What were you expecting?” Enough of his former vanity remained to remind him of what he had been. 

“Exactly this,” she answered, “if I had been expecting you at all. Maybe part of me was, since I kept your wand all these years. Make a fist to put it out.” She nodded at his hand, which still cradled her conjured flame. “How did you do it?” 

He followed her into the bedroom, watched as she put her shoulder to the bed frame and pushed. Metal legs stuttered across the worn wood floor. She looked over her shoulder, waiting for an answer. 

“Moody’s lesson stuck.” 

Hermione raised both eyebrows. “An Animagus? Without a wand?” 

“Black did it,” he said, somewhat defensively. 

“Sirius _had been doing it_. For years.” 

“Fifth year gave me a head start.” His silver eyes grew dark, a bitter sneer twisting his lips. “And I had plenty of time to practice.” 

Hermione gave the bed frame another shove. “I can’t say I’m surprised. They might have been awful, but the Dementors were far more reliable guards than humans. They forgot to recast the magical dampening wards?” 

“Every five years instead of every two.” 

“Idiots,” she said with a decisive nod before giving the bed a final push. “They know the dampeners build on each successive cast. In thirty years, even a wanded wizard wouldn’t have been able to cast much more than a Lumos in that place.” 

“I could feel my magic returning.” He lifted his hands and stared at them like they were foreign objects, like he did not recognize them. “Year after year, I could _feel_ it.” 

“The worst part?” Hermione faced him, hands on her hips. “They _knew_ what was happening. Every couple of years, there’d be a story in the paper. A wandless Stunner cast on a guard, an Arresto Momentum too weak to save a jumper.” She shook her head. “That’s the problem with _procedure_. No one actually follows it.” 

Using the bed for balance, she lowered herself to her knees. Her hands skittered across the floorboards, searching for the right knots and nicks, activating them with a delicate touch. 

A floorboard across the room lifted with a quiet squeak. 

Hermione did not bother standing. Easier to crawl. 

“I’ve heard of two other escapes. Each lasted about a week before they were caught or killed. You may last longer, though.” 

She removed the floorboard and reached into the gap beneath, her arm disappearing to her shoulder. 

“Why is that?” 

The flick of her finger against a hidden spindle released the locking charm, and Hermione shuddered at the feel of his wand against her fingers. His magic felt foreign to her, as misplaced and beautiful as a flower bud after the first frost, but at the same time, she _knew_ it. 

The wood was _Crataegus_. Hawthorn. Paradoxical, according to Gregorovitch, and she tended to agree. They were plants that projected the desire for solitude. Covered in three-inch long thorns, their flowers produced trimethylamine, the same compound formed by decomposing animal flesh. The pollinators they attracted were not the usual bees and butterflies, but carrion beetles, tricked into the job by the lure of dead meat. But beyond the surface lay hawthorn’s true value: its berries could be eaten in jams and candies and, when prepared properly, an extraction of its leaves and blooms could be used medicinally to treat congestive heart failure or clear a tapeworm. 

Most people never experienced that side of hawthorn. They did not want to brave its unpleasant exterior to discover the good within. 

The core was unicorn hair. Faithful, consistent and—if the thrum against her fingers was any indication—still alive, despite being locked beneath a floorboard for three decades. Any other unicorn core would have been overcome with melancholy at such mistreatment and needed replacement. 

But that was the magic of the Infusion, the process of binding wood to core and core to wood. The union produced a wand greater than the sum of its parts. A whole whose motivations and moods were as complex as its owner’s. 

She straightened, held the wand against her chest, and looked up at him from her knees. 

“Because you’ll have me.” 

Draco’s eyes widened upon seeing his wand, as if he had not believed her until he had seen the proof of it himself. The shine of emotion and excitement, of life, returned to his eyes. Hermione felt her heart thud again. His humanity was not gone for good. Just hidden. 

He held out his hand. “Give it to me.” 

“I will. But first—” 

His hand flew at her, an open-palmed swipe aimed at her face. She dodged, fell, scuttled backwards until her shoulders hit the bureau, which wobbled on uneven legs. Draco, overbalanced by the missed connection, righted himself, advanced, then stopped when he saw Hermione’s wand aimed at his heart. 

“But first, you need to answer a question.” Her breath came hard, her fist tight around the hilt of his wand. She could feel it calling for him and had a moment of premonition. 

Once they reconnected, there would be no stopping him. 

“I did not come here to—” 

“You came here to kill me,” she interrupted, “and when I give you this, you may still do just that. I’ve kept this safe for you for _thirty years_. You owe me.” 

Draco’s curled lip relaxed into neutrality, though his eyes still sparked. 

“Ask.” 

“Who’s on your list?” 

“Granger. Brown. Rietveld. Zabini.” 

He recited the names quickly, a prayer and a promise that had kept him sane in isolation. 

“No one else?” 

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Should there be?” 

“That’s not my decision.” 

“What are you not telling me?” 

Hermione pursed her lips and held his wand out to him, handle-first. “You’ve missed a lot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The information on the components of Draco’s wand (both core and wood) comes from Pottermore. The information I included about hawthorn trees is accurate, and there is some very interesting, very preliminary research about hawthorn’s ability to treat congestive heart failure. Please talk to your doctor before you go to your local park and start pruning.


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione sloshed a generous measure of gin into a chipped tumbler and tossed it back. The overlarge gulp ran from the corners of her mouth, and she wiped away the spill with her bloodied sleeve. She filled the same glass with more gin and pushed it across the counter to Draco.

He took it and drank, the cheap liquor heavy with juniper and the burn of alcohol.

“Astoria’s with him?”

“She waited the customary two years of mourning, if that’s any consolation.” She refilled the glass. “Their engagement was quiet, but Zabini was being groomed to be the Wizengamot’s next Chief Warlock. They couldn’t hide it forever.”

Draco’s eyes settled on his wand, which lay between them, still unused.

He thought he would feel something.

Rage was present. Rage was constant. He had felt it since that day in court, sentenced to life imprisonment for a crime he did not commit. It varied by degrees—some days were better than others—but it was always there, a warm fire against the cold of injustice.

But this was _good_. Getting his wand back was a monumental step forward that he had not anticipated. The arc of the universe bending toward him, for once, instead of away. He should have been happy.

All he could manage was numb satisfaction. Objective acknowledgement of a useful addition to the deficient _Asset_ column.

Azkaban had broken him; he did not realize how much until now.

“What was it like?”

“Small, but opulent, if the _Prophet_’s photos were anything to judge by.”

“Did she look happy?”

“They both did.”

Had it always been that way? Blaise had attended Draco and Astoria’s wedding, a guest invited out of obligation rather than desire. Had Blaise wanted her then, too? Did he know how far he would go to have her?

And Astoria. Had she gone willingly to Blaise’s bed? Was it desperation that drove her, or treachery?

“I never signed divorce papers.” Draco looked at Hermione. “Is it legal?”

She nodded. “Annulled. Your imprisonment happened two months after your wedding, she said she was forced into it.”

“It was _arranged_.”

“And she claimed it was never consummated.”

Color rose high on his cheeks. He leaned forward, his hand curled into a tight fist around the handle of his wand. The rush of reunion, a thrill of power. Maybe that was happiness now.

“That was _her_ choice,” he growled. “I told her I wouldn’t touch her until she was ready.”

“Convenient,” Hermione noted, draining the tumbler in a swallow. Another refill. “How are you going to do it?”

“Find them, kill them.”

Hermione barked a laugh; his eyes narrowed in a glare.

“I expected better of you, Malfoy. Thirty years in Azkaban and nothing more than _find them, kill them_?” She laughed again. “You don’t know a thing about the world you’ve stumbled back into.”

“The _Prophet_ must have cancelled my weekly subscription. What’s in it for you?”

“I already told you: revenge. You weren’t the only victim here.”

Draco shot back the liquor. “Oh?”

“You think I chose to quit my work as an advocate? You think this,” she gestured around her, to the squalor of the tiny flat above her rundown shop, “is my ambition?” It was her turn to lean in. “He _ruined_ me. Zabini fabricated a scandal between me and the judge, Rietveld. Doctored photos, forged notes, and me with no one to corroborate my alibi. I was disbarred.”

“And Weasley?”

Her snarl softened. “We stopped talking and never restarted. Harry followed him, Ginny followed Harry.”

“They didn’t believe you?”

“You haven’t seen the photos. Even I had to question whether they were real.”

“You didn’t fight it?”

“How?” she snapped. “My word against the evidence? Against Rietveld? He kept his position, too. Claimed I had _coerced_ him into it.” She sneered, straightened. “I’ve been alone for just as long as you have.”

“You’ve had your freedom.”

“Have I? Reputation ruined, famous for all the wrong reasons. Couldn’t get a decent job, can’t save enough to leave this gods-forsaken city… You want revenge, Malfoy? Well, you’re not alone.”

The fire in her eyes matched the dark burning in his soul. He had an ally. Another tally in the _Assets_ column.

“When?”

A sly smile played across her lips. She leaned against the stove, hip cocked and arms crossed. “In time. Revenge can’t be taken in haste.”

He circled around the counter and stepped into her orbit. He was sick of her games, her dissembling. He felt like she was holding all the cards and only letting him look when she wanted him to.

“_When_?”

She cocked her head and let him loom. “We need information. Reconnaissance. And while my wands may be the worst in the city, my potioneering is as good as it’s ever been. We have one chance at this.” She held up a finger, then drove it into his sternum. “_One_. So, you’ll wait. You’ll wait until we’re good and ready to move, and when the time comes, it will be your wand at their throats. Your wand that ends it and brings us both justice.”

“Wait,” he repeated, acclimating himself to the idea.

“Yes, wait. Until then, you can stay here. The bed is big enough for us both.”

Draco looked askance at the bedroom and the sagging, double-wide mattress in its plain metal frame.

“Too many years sleeping on concrete,” he muttered, voice full of bitter memory. “The floor will do for me.”

* * *

Draco stood behind the empty shop’s counter. Waiting.

Hermione had been gone since before sunrise, padding past his nest of blankets in her living room corner wearing a face he had not recognized. It was different from the one she had worn the day before, and the day before that. The tiny apartment was filled with the smell of Polyjuice. It followed her like a miasma, her hip flask filled with the rancid brew that would keep her hidden for the day.

She had left him with specific instructions: let the wand choose the wizard, bump up the price if they looked wealthy, and take his dose. She had even left him a timer: a Knut charmed to vibrate on the hour, every hour.

She did not trust him.

He did not blame her.

The Knut buzzed, rattling against the counter like a trapped bee. Draco looked sideways at his own flask and hesitated. The shop averaged about one customer per day. Perhaps unsurprising: the high season for wands was July and August, before term’s start in September. Only criminals and idiots needed them otherwise.

He looked out at the empty street, dreary and gray to match the sky, then to the poster plastered on her window.

A poster of him.

The “Wanted” signs donned every window, the search for him still intense and, as of two days ago, international. It was a fair likeness, though he had shorn his hair short, the distinctive platinum never getting long enough to out him as a Malfoy. The chances of him being seen were slim, but he would almost certainly be recognized.

He palmed the coin to stop the buzzing and reached for the flask. It glopped rather than poured, the dosing beaker filling with potion the consistency of thick mud. The color was curious: a dark burgundy, tending towards maroon. The taste was even more so: light at first but finishing sour, like a red currant picked too soon.

If he had tried the potion thirty years ago, would Hermione have tasted only sweet? Or had she always had a tart edge?

He schooled his expression and swallowed. A shudder rolled through his body, the potion making micro-adjustments to maintain Hermione’s form.

She had observed the results of his first dose with interest.

“To make sure nothing goes wrong,” she had said, though the strange, satisfied expression that played across her mouth and eyes betrayed the lie.

It had felt strange, at first, inhabiting her body. He felt her aches and pains like they were his own. They even shared a few: bad knees, sore back, arthritic fingers. She needed reading glasses, unsurprisingly. Draco ran his hands down his front, _her_ front, fingers skimming over her breasts.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The question more teasing than sincere. “Are you a virgin, Malfoy?”

He scowled. “Are you?”

“No, and I’m too tired to care about vanity.” She cast a dismissive wave at him. “Feel free to explore it while I’m gone.”

He was tempted. Hermione did not seem to care, and Draco had not felt the soft pleasure of a woman’s body since Hogwarts, before his and Astoria’s engagement had been decided. Despite her consent, despite his curiosity, he kept his hands and eyes to himself. He would not know where to start, anyway, and a masturbatory romp would not change or fix anything. Regardless of the body he wore, the void inside of him remained. A yawning, empty stretch that only one thing could satisfy. He imagined the moment: the press of his wand to Blaise’s chest, how it would feel to vocalize the curse he had been dreaming of for years.

The weak chime above the shop’s door tinkled. A dark-skinned woman pressed herself against the door, locking it with a twist of her hand. She looked at him, dark eyes wide.

“Can I help you?”

“We’re ready.”

The woman doubled over, clutching her stomach, and Draco bit back a swell of nausea as her bones cracked and her muscles ripped. Hermione stood in the woman’s place, panting. Her shoulders sagged with exhaustion.

“Never gets easier,” she muttered. She limped across the store and began to pull herself up the stairs. “Lock up and put the kettle on, won’t you? I need a shower.”

The expectation of obedience sat uncomfortably across Draco’s shoulders. He had never _put the kettle on_; he was not sure he knew how. But he cast the proper charms to roll the shades and extinguish the lights—even the simplest spells still felt foreign—and followed her upstairs.

The dose had worn off by the time she reappeared, smelling of dilute Polyjuice and wringing her hair with a threadbare towel. Her eyes jumped from him to the unlit stove, to the empty kettle. She dropped her towel on the back of a kitchen chair and brushed past him.

“Take a seat, Malfoy.” She ran the tap, filled the kettle, and prodded a back burner to life. “Clark Priddy. You remember him?”

He did not.

“The Court Scribe during your trial.”

“He’s not on my list.”

“He’s on mine.”

Draco stood. “That’s not the deal.”

“That’s _precisely_ the deal.” She slammed the tea tin onto the counter. “We do this _together_. Besides, Priddy is the means to an end. He heads the office of Quill Control and Rune Translation. He has access to the National Register, which we’ll need to find the addresses of the others.”

She set a steaming mug of black tea before him, then sat at the kitchen table and conjured a scroll and a quill. She looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Unless you’d prefer to leave?”

He considered it. Priddy was a delay, and every day he spent in this world, Polyjuiced or not, increased the risk of his recapture. He needed to get moving. He needed them dead.

“No more delays.”

“No more delays,” she agreed. “But we’re going to do this right. Now, sit down. We have work to do.”

* * *

Draco stalked the London streets. It was his first time out of the shop in two weeks, and he wore his own skin.

He hated it.

The late October morning reminded him of Azkaban. The constant wet, the smell of damp stone, the muggy feel of the air against his skin. The striped robes he had worn had never been dry, always damp, always cold. If he ever had the chance, he would move somewhere warm and dry. He never wanted to see fog again.

The sound of shoes pounding pavement approached through the mist. Draco slowed to a stop, braced himself, then sprang. He hit the jogger square, and the breath left the man’s chest in a gasp. A strangled cry as they hit the pavement, the empty sucking sound of his lungs reinflating. The jogger had time for one breath before Draco’s fist collided with his jaw. Draco pulled back for a second blow, then paused.

He had seen Clark Priddy once through Hermione’s memories, hastily extracted wisps shivering in a shoddy, second-hand Pensieve. But it was enough.

He curled his fingers into Priddy’s thinning hair and slammed his head against the pavement. Once. Twice. The man’s eyes fluttered closed behind glasses knocked askew. Draco hefted him onto his back in an inexpert fireman’s carry, then spun.

The crack of his Apparition stunned Hermione out of her pacing.

“_Finally_. Take him upstairs. I’ll reset the wards.”

She stood in the shop’s approximate center, muttering, efficient even with the more complex wards. Priddy moaned against his shoulder, and Draco turned away, heading up the narrow staircase.

He dumped Priddy onto the floor, the sudden impact prompting another moan and a careful roll onto his side. A series of quick spells applied tight bonds around Priddy’s hands and ankles and blindfolded him. Blood seeped from wounds on his head and mouth. His lower lip had split, and the sharp point of a broken tooth was stark against the bloody pink of his tongue.

Hermione joined them, standing at Draco’s shoulder.

“Any trouble?”

“No.”

“You’re bleeding.”

He flinched as she touched his hand, her fingers smearing his bloody knuckles.

“Here.” She lifted his hand and conjured bandages that followed the path of her wand, across his knuckles, between his fingers, and ending in a tight knot at his palm. Her touch lingered. She met his gaze without fear.

“How do you want to do this?”

Hermione dropped his hand to pluck two vials from the air. She handed him one.

“Harvest first. We need his Ministry access.”

Draco knelt and tore several hairs from Priddy’s head, making sure the follicle was intact before vialling them. Hermione used a short, sharp paring knife to trim his fingernails. Once his vial was sufficiently full, Hermione twisted them both back into the ether. They stood back from Priddy’s body.

“Ready?”

Draco clenched his fist and nodded.

Hermione pointed her wand at Priddy’s temple. “_Rennervate_.”

The man twisted like a stranded fish against his restraints. His chest trembled with shallow, panicked inhales as he turned to face the low light.

“Who… Who are you? What do you want?”

“Answers,” Hermione said, modulating her voice to be low and raspy. “Rietveld.” Priddy stopped squirming. “You remember him?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“You’ll let me go?”

Negotiation. _Delay_.

Draco landed a kick to Priddy’s midsection, the absence of air quieting his empty words.

“Tell me,” Hermione repeated, “and we’ll see.”

“What… What do you want to know?” Priddy asked on a gasp.

“Thirty years ago, you arranged a series of payments between Rietveld and a third party.”

“Yes.”

“Who was that third party?”

Priddy gaped and shook his head.

Draco wrapped a hand around Hermione’s upper arm and leaned in close.

“You don’t know?”

“I do,” she whispered, “but we need to be sure we get them all.”

“I can’t…” Priddy moaned, blood and spittle dribbling onto his chin.

“You can.”

“He’ll kill me!”

She shook off Draco’s arm and leaned in close, pressing her wand to the soft underside of Priddy’s chin.

“You think I won’t?”

The pungent scent of urine filled the air. Draco stepped back with a sneer.

“_Greengrass_.” The name sounded like a sob. “It was that Greengrass girl. The young one.”

Draco’s stomach sank. Whatever hope he had been holding for Astoria vanished with Priddy’s answer. She had been in on it. A willing participant in his and Hermione’s ruination. He felt her look and met her eyes. No sympathy. No pity. Just a hard acknowledgement of the facts, logic unadulterated by emotion or pride. He nodded; they were together in this, then. All the way.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Hermione backed away. Unspoken, Draco aimed another kick. Priddy screamed.

“The advocate asked too many questions! The Germans, she was talking to the Germans!”

“What was in it for you?”

“I don’t—”

He bucked and screamed as Hermione’s stinging jinx caught his cheek, blistering it red.

“You don’t know what you got?”

“Ten percent!”

“That’s it?” The threat was implied; Priddy flinched.

“Connections! A fast-track to the Minister’s Office! Please, let me go! I have a family, please!”

“_Silencio_.”

Priddy’s wailing stopped, though his mouth still moved. Hermione crossed the room to the kitchen. Draco followed.

“Are you convinced?” A flicker of uncertainty crossed her eyes.

“Are you?”

He did not mean it as a challenge, but she set her chin nevertheless. “I’ve heard enough.”

She spun on her heel and marched back across the flat, breaking Priddy’s silence as she went.

“I have money,” Priddy babbled, like he had never stopped. “Connections. I can get you what you want. Anything you want, I swear, I promise, I—”

Hermione pressed her foot into his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. Then she set that foot on his chest. Put her weight into it.

“I want my life back, you fucking climber.”

A flash of green light blinded him. When Draco’s eyes readjusted, Priddy’s corpse was a fetal rictus, face frozen in eternal terror. Hermione’s chest heaved. Her wand fell to the floor with a clatter as she sprinted for the loo, and Draco watched through the open door as she vomited into the commode.

He looked at Priddy’s corpse. It could wait, but not for long.

Draco set his wand on the kitchen counter and knelt beside Hermione, clumsily gathering her hair. She shuddered and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve.

“I’ve never killed anyone before.”

She rested her head against her forearm. Draco let her hair go. The curls did not have the life they once did. On impulse, he smoothed a hand down her back. They had both changed.

“I’ve been told it gets easier.”

“I don’t know if I want it to.”

She pushed herself to seated and looked past him. He followed her gaze to Priddy’s trainers, still damp from his morning run.

“Barty Crouch Jr. transfigured his father into a bone and buried it in the Forbidden Forest.” She turned to Draco. “No one ever found him.”

He nodded; it was a good plan. “We’ll need to burn his clothing.”

“Right.”

Draco offered his arm. Hermione took it, leaning on him as she stood.

“We’ll get better at this part,” she said, as if trying to convince herself.

“We have to,” Draco replied. “We’re just getting started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Line from _Sweeney Todd_: “Revenge can’t be taken in haste.”


	5. Chapter 5

Draco rolled Clark Priddy’s shoulders. They were wider than his, bulkier from regular feedings, stronger from routine exercise. He stretched his wrist next. Carpal tunnel, Hermione guessed. Caught early, though judging by the discomfort playing across Draco’s brow, Priddy probably wore a brace. Draco would not have that luxury today. He lifted a hand at play with the hair at the nape of his neck. Priddy was balding, but stubborn about it, growing his hair longer as if that made up for the sparse strands on top.

Hermione pressed a hand to the small of his back.

“Stop twitching.”

He flinched again as her breath ghosted the shell of his ear. Priddy was several inches shorter than Draco, and the body Hermione wore—some Ministry nobody she had stunned and nicked hairs from weeks ago—was several inches taller than she was used to. Her eyes were blue, her hair blonde and short, her face unlined from the stress of years. But when Draco met her gaze, she felt seen. Exposed in a way that made her on edge and defensive.

“You’re sure this will work?”

They stepped forward in the line for the loo.

“We have an hour before we need to dose again. We should be able to get in and out in time. If not?” She patted her robe pocket. “I have extra.”

His eyes shifted forward, but Hermione thought she saw his lips quirk. Respect. It sent a thrill through her.

He was not used to her yet. The way she thought through every scenario, prepared for every circumstance. He had been accustomed to filling that role in school, surrounding himself with cronies instead of someone who could help him, challenge him, make him better. She stared at the space between his shoulders and smiled.

Things were different now.

Draco disappeared into the men’s room. She turned into the women’s. Minutes later, they reunited in the Ministry’s Atrium.

He stood stiffly, blocking the fireplace from which he had stepped. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him aside, sending an apologetic smile to the grumbling wizard behind him.

“You okay? _Hey_.” She shook him, tearing his eyes, wide with panic, away from the morning rush. “Get it together.”

In any other situation, she might have been sympathetic. Thirty years of imprisonment would make any man skittish in a crowd. But they did not have the time for empathy. They had a book to find.

She dropped her hands to his and squeezed.

“Close your eyes,” she said, trying to hide her urgency. “_Breathe_.”

He listened, dropping his gaze to the Atrium’s dark wood floor, nostrils flaring as he inhaled. After three deep breaths, the steel had returned.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“Level One. Follow me.”

They dove into the river of Ministry officials. She cut the path, and Draco followed close behind. They joined a group waiting for a lift, and she spared him a look. His face was pinched but otherwise composed. He inhaled sharply as they filed in, pushed together like sardines in the confined space. She pressed against his front and felt the controlled movement of his chest against her back. Uncomfortable, but not panicked.

The ride to Level One was brief, and they stepped from the lift onto thick, purple carpet. Though Hermione had expected fine furnishings, the opulence took her aback. Rich mahogany furniture, gold trim, thick doors. Employees in expensive robes talking in hushed voices, writing with eagle feather quills on fine vellum instead of standard parchment.

A sour taste filled her mouth: this was the life she could have had if Priddy, Rietveld, and Zabini had not sabotaged her career. The Ministry had always been the plan. Establish her reputation working for good, learn enough of politics to get hired, and use her savvy to climb until she made it here, to the Minister’s level. Maybe to the position of Minister itself.

She bit her tongue and let Draco lead, keeping close to his shoulder, her head down. He muttered a few quiet greetings to the people they passed, then pressed Priddy’s wand to his office door. He let her in first and closed the door behind him.

Hermione withdrew her wand and locked the door.

“Check the desk.”

The order was unnecessary. Draco was already in Priddy’s chair, long fingers running across the desk like pale spiders, checking for hidden levers and secret compartments. She took the bookshelf, her fingers trailing across the spines, feeling for what she needed as much as she looked.

“Is this what it could have been?”

She looked over her shoulder. Draco had picked up a quill, twirled it between his fingers.

“You wanted to work here?”

“I wanted power. I wasn’t sure what avenue I would take to get it.” He closed his eyes and brushed the feather across his cheek. “I could have bought my way in.”

Hermione frowned. They had been so different. He: entitled, born into a world of privilege, working when it suited him. She: thrust into a world she had not known existed until age eleven, fighting for scraps of respect from elitist pricks, whose acceptance should not have mattered, but did.

Time, more than death or education, was the great equalizer.

She turned back to the shelf. “Yes. This is what it would have been.”

The quill snapped, a dry-bone sound that made her smile.

“The Register isn’t here,” she said, rising from checking the lowest shelves, grimacing at the pain in her knees. “We should—”

“Wait.” Draco pressed both hands to the blotter. He closed his eyes and lifted his palms, as if pulling against a great weight. The National Register rose through the desk, the brown leather of the blotter forming its cover. Hermione held her breath until Draco’s shoulders relaxed. He eased the book onto the desk; it was several inches thick.

“Perfect.”

She reached for it, then hissed as electricity arced between the cover and her fingers. Draco flipped it open without trouble. Blood magic. The lingering guilt she felt over Priddy’s death lessened; she was too old to tolerate racists.

“Who are we looking for?”

“Brown first.” She took the snapped quill, inked it, and began scribbling the addresses as Draco found them. She tucked the scroll into her pocket while Draco stood and pushed the book back into the desk.

“With ten minutes to spare,” she said.

Hermione pulled the door open and came face-to-face with Blaise Zabini.

The years had been kind to him. Laugh lines made creases around his eyes, and delicate fingers of grey streaked his hair, giving him a distinguished, almost regal appearance. His arresting blue eyes traveled her body, assessing her in an instant, apparently pleased. A wide smile, a touch toward predatory, bared his straight, white teeth.

“I haven’t seen you on this level before,” he said.

He braced an elbow against the office’s threshold, caging her in. Hermione faked a shy smile and dipped her head, effectively hiding her scorn.

“Priddy.”

“_Zabini_.”

Blaise’s tone had turned from inquiring to familiar; Draco’s was filled with raw rage. How could Blaise not hear it, or feel the heat of anger simmering off him? She chanced a look and saw Draco’s wand in hand, hidden in the folds of his robe.

They needed to leave.

“The runes discovered from the most recent Department of Mysteries excavation, the one in Egypt… Anything useful?”

The silence dragged on a beat too long.

“We’re compiling the report,” Hermione said. “I came up to advise Clark on a few remaining queries.”

“Advise him?” Blaise’s gaze bounced between them, sparkling with innuendo.

Hermione checked her watch; just seven minutes left.

“We have a meeting…” she said, glancing past him and into the hallway.

Blaise stepped aside.

“I hope to see you again soon.”

Lips forced into a tight smile, she stepped past him. But Draco did not move.

“_Clark_.”

He had to have heard the warning. He knew to follow the plan. But one look at his eyes made her realize that Draco was beyond logic. She itched for her wand. A quick Imperius would solve the problem, but could she draw and cast without Blaise noticing? Was it worth the risk?

Her hand drifted toward her robe pocket.

“Chief Warlock Zabini?”

“Excuse me.” And with a parting nod, he turned down the hall, walking toward the caller.

The spell was broken, and Draco lunged. She caught him by his arm, before he had the chance to raise and aim. He shoved her away, shrugging her off like she weighed nothing. She braced, pushed herself off the wall, and took hold of both his arms from behind, wrenching him back with all her weight, forcing him into Priddy’s office.

“We don’t have time. We need to leave. We need to _leave_!”

“Move it, Gran—”

Her open palm connected with his cheek, hard enough to sting, quiet enough so as not to arouse suspicion.

“I’m leaving,” she said, her voice a low hiss. “Unless you want to go back to Azkaban with the job undone, I suggest you follow.”

He rubbed his cheek, and too much of his characteristic scowl showed through Priddy’s face.

She turned and marched toward the lift, grim satisfaction settling in her chest as he fell into pace behind her.

The pain hit as they reached the Atrium’s fireplace. Draco stepped in first, she wrapped her arms around his waist, and then they were off, spinning through the Floo system back to the toilets. She Disapparated them as soon as they stepped from the hearth. When they landed in her shop, the transformation had them in its grip. They collapsed onto the floor, their leg bones breaking and reforming, muscles tearing and reattaching in a now-familiar agony.

Hermione breathed through the pain, focusing on the press of her forehead against the cool shop floor, and the smell of dust, wood shavings, and the lingering ozone of new magic.

They had done it.

They had broken into the Ministry and obtained the information they needed to finish the plan. To seal the loose ends that had been whipping at them for three decades. She released a faint, laughing breath. It would be easy now.

“I had him.”

The bubble of joy building in her chest burst. She pushed herself up and looked at Draco. He was on all fours, wand still in hand, staring a hole into the floor beneath him.

“Malfoy…”

“No, I had him!”

He lashed out, a hex colliding with her chest and sending her spinning. She landed hard on her side, rolled to her back, tried to breathe. Her inhale spluttered as Draco straddled her. His knees pressed tight against her abdomen, her wand pinned between their pressed legs. He jammed his wand beneath her chin, the tip still warm from his hex.

“He was right in front of me. You held me back. You—”

Hermione thrust her hips up, tried to roll, but the angle was wrong, her leverage insufficient. An instinctual grunt as he struck her cheek with an open palm. A gasp as he wrapped a hand around her neck, his fingertips connecting with the floor.

“You stopped me.” His eyes were dark. Or was that the room fading? Her vision going at the edges as he choked the life from her?

“Saved… You.” Her voice rasped, barely discernible. Every word felt like fire gouting from her throat. “Murder… In Ministry? Azkaban… Death…” She tore at his hand, fingernails gouging into his skin, drawing blood. He eased off. Her throat burned as oxygen rushed into her lungs.

“You have a chance,” she croaked. “You can have a life after this, but only if you _wait_.”

She watched her words hit home. Saw the change move like a storm across his brow, fury tempered by unwilling patience. He roared and sent a frustrated curse across the shop, exploding an entire wall of wands. Hours of work, half a lifetime of effort, Galleons of supplies, snapped in an instant.

Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes, more reflexive from the choking than from grief over her destroyed wares. They probably would not have sold, anyway.

Draco’s agonized moan drew her back. His head hung almost to her shoulder, hands braced on either side of her head. She rested her palm against his jaw and lifted. Their noses brushed.

“We can finish this.”

His breath puffed across her mouth. He stirred against her belly, and her eyes dropped to his lips.

“Together.”

She kissed him. Chaste, dry, brief, but transformative. A different kind of fire lit behind his eyes, like the breaking of a new dawn.

“Brown is next,” Hermione said, running her thumb along his jaw line. “How are we going to get to her?”

Draco smirked and sat upright, his hips pressed against hers.

“I have an idea.”

* * *

Petrol splashed onto the floor behind Hermione. Cool droplets soaked through her denims, the scent heavy. Later, she would debate burning them, too, or keeping them as a reminder of what they had accomplished. For now, however, she wanted to remain present. She wanted to feel what they were doing.

All around her were mementos of a happy life. On the walls, carefully curated photos. Vacation, friends, reunions. In the living room, a large wedding portrait. Both Lavender and Parvati wore traditional Indian saris, red and gold, glittering with crystals, dripping with jewelry. As one, they looked off-camera and laughed. A guest cracking a joke, Hermione guessed. The photographer gestured for their attention, and they gave it. Smiling. Kissing. The love they shared was painfully obvious, a friendship that had grown into far more over time. The trust between them was equally brutal. Ample evidence suggested that they had married willingly, excitedly, decades ago, and that their relationship remained strong. The two women had withstood the trials and vagaries of a shared life; they deserved each other.

Hermione rubbed her chest, soothing a painful twinge, a feeling caught between yearning and regret.

Lavender had seemed vapid in Hogwarts—her favorite subject had been _Divination_, of all useless pursuits—which had made Ron’s interest in her even more crushing. But Ron had chosen Hermione in the end. Jealousy had turned to triumph, which had then been edged with respect as they allied against evil in the Second Wizarding War. They had lost touch after Hogwarts, and Hermione thought that had been the end of it.

Until Lavender had broken the story of Hermione’s alleged affair with Rietveld.

Hermione had not been able to dissuade her from publishing. Her request for comment had been nothing more than a _pro forma_ measure, performed to maintain the guise of journalistic integrity. She was too much the student of Rita Skeeter to care about the truth, so long as the papers sold.

Hermione had avoided the _Prophet_ ever since but was nevertheless aware of Lavender’s well-established reputation as a sensationalist. Though popular, her column was relegated to the _Prophet_’s back pages.

Surprising, considering her past mauling from Greyback and the libelous slant of her reporting, that a lack of home security would be her end.

Accessing their small home in Hogsmeade’s quiet suburbs had been simple. Doors unlocked, security jinxes so weak as to be practically nonexistent against Hermione’s expertise. A quiet life had made them comfortable. Neither had woken when Draco had entered their room and stunned them both. They would not wake again until it was too late. Until smoke had filled their charming home and flames licked at their expensive bedspread.

At least they would die together. They would not suffer the heartache of a lost love.

“Granger?”

Draco watched her from the opposite side of the living room. She did not know how long he had been there.

“Is everything ready?”

“Almost.” She splashed petrol onto the portrait, watching the colors run and warp beneath the solvent. She set the canister down, tipped it over with a nudge of her foot, and withdrew a book of matches from her pocket. She snapped one off and held it between her fingers, ready to strike.

Draco joined her, looking up at the ruined picture.

“Astoria and I were never so happy,” he said, almost to himself. “She wasn’t, at least. I thought I loved her. I thought she was beautiful, and that she would see the beauty in me, too. I thought she would learn to love me.” He looked at Hermione, his face drawn, almost skeletal in the low, filtered moonlight. “Did you and Weasley ever marry?”

“No. Ron was always insecure about our relationship. He didn’t think he deserved me.”

Draco breathed a derisive laugh.

“Doesn’t matter whether he did or not,” she snapped, surprised by her own defensiveness. “Once Brown reported that I was sleeping with Rietveld, the tables turned. Suddenly, I didn’t deserve _him_.”

“He should have believed you.”

She arched a brow. “Would you have done? Rietveld gave me everything Ron couldn’t: career advancement, mental stimulation… A win on your case would have set my career off like a bloody rocket. I wanted to win it, I knew I _could_, and Ron saw what I was willing to do for it. Long days, late nights… Fucking the judge was the next logical step, in his mind.”

“You would have been wasted on him.”

Hermione shrugged. However distant the memory of Ron’s betrayal, it never failed to birth an ache deep in her chest.

“I didn’t know Astoria, though she was beautiful,” she added, somewhat reluctantly.

“Beauty is a construct.”

Hermione smiled. “Trust is a lie.”

Draco took her hand, the matchstick still pinched in her fingers, and held it between them.

“This is what’s true,” he said with a grim smile. “Shared trauma.”

He closed the distance between them, and when their lips met, the match lit.

It was not like the first time, when he had had her pinned. This felt human, soft and warm, a shade of what Lavender and Parvati had shared, but more powerful, more real, than anything Hermione had felt in recent memory.

His eyes shone silver when he broke the kiss, the match held between them like a fiery heart in the soul of the home.

“One step closer,” he whispered.

“One step closer,” she agreed.

She dropped the match, and they Disapparated before the fire starter even hit the ground.


	6. Chapter 6

The folded newspaper dropped onto Blaise’s desk with a fluttering slap. It was the Saturday edition—thicker than normal with an infamously difficult crossword—and almost upset his teacup when it landed. Former Chief Warlock Bas Rietveld looked up at him from the front page, his expression solemn and serious as he posed for the photographer. It was an old photo, originally taken to accompany a feature on Rietveld’s career in the Wizengamot. A puff piece published upon the announcement of his retirement from the bench. Blaise’s own feature as his replacement had been published a few weeks later. 

It was not the _Prophet_’s style to use dated photos, but considering the headline, it was for the best that they did not attempt a new one. 

_Rietveld Recovered: Missing Judge’s Body Found Floating in Thames_. 

“Not so paranoid now, am I?” 

He looked up at Astoria, her lip curled into a sneer and her blue eyes spitting sparks. Funny: only when she was furious could he remember the beauty she had been. The work she had had done—the injections, the lifts, the tucks—had been performed by the best cosmetic Healers money could buy, with all the care and precision required of people who spent their life in the public sphere. But however subtle the changes, she had never looked quite herself. Too unmoving. Too stiff. Like she had passed through life without being touched by it. 

Though he supposed that was his fault. Money provided a buffer between Astoria and hardship. It hardly mattered whether it came from his vault or Malfoy’s. 

“_Well_?” 

He set the paper to the side and smoothed the creased vellum. His ruling would need to be filed, but at least it would not be displayed. 

“Well what?” he asked, inking his quill. It was half theater. Acting casual would annoy her, which was certainly a goal. But if he indulged her mania, it might infect him, too. He might start to believe he was in danger. That Malfoy posed a threat. 

But Astoria was serious today. She cleared his desk with a swipe of her wand, and Blaise shut his eyes against the destruction. Deep thuds as his law texts struck the thick, Oriental rug. The snapping of quills, the clang and drip of the upended ink pot, the shatter of glass and crystal as wedding photo and ornamental scales of justice broke on impact. 

A deep inhale. A slow exhale. Control. 

He set his quill down at a precise ninety-degree angle with the long edge of his desk and leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands over his stomach, grown soft over a life of luxury. 

“Is there something you would like to discuss?” 

“They found him in the Thames, Blaise. The bloody _Thames_.” 

“I know.” 

He had not needed to read the article. He had seen Rietveld’s corpse himself, pale and stinking from a week in the river, skin slipping where the ropes binding his wrists and ankles had cut against his bloating flesh. The force of the gasses trapped within his rotting gut had been strong enough to overpower the anchor that had weighed him down. 

“You see the pattern here. I know you do.” 

“We’ve been over this.” 

“Then let’s go over it again!” Astoria slammed her hands on his desk. “Six weeks ago, Draco escapes from Azkaban. Two weeks later, Priddy goes missing. One week after that, Brown and Patil are burned alive in their beds. This week, Rietveld’s body is found. Draco is systematically hunting everyone who he believes had a hand in sentencing him in the first place, which means that we’re next.” 

“That’s not possible.” 

“Oh, so he’s been caught?” 

His eyes snapped to hers. “_No_,” he said, struggling to remain stoic against her sarcasm. 

“Then why on earth would you say that?” 

“Because it’s not!” Blaise shot to his feet. “Malfoy’s one of the most notorious criminals in our world. His face has been plastered on every shop window and street corner, and no one has seen him. Magical Law Enforcement hasn’t received a single credible tip as to his location. He probably died in the Black Sea.” 

“But if—” 

“_But if_,” Blaise interrupted, practically shouting, “he did make it to London, what then? His parents are dead. You transferred the bulk of his fortune into your account before the annulment went through. He has no friends, no resources, no wand, nowhere to stay where he would not be immediately recognized and turned over to the authorities. It _cannot be him_!” 

“Then we’re supposed to believe this is a coincidence?” Astoria threw her hands into the air, exasperated. “Everyone involved in this fucking conspiracy either missing or dead, and it’s a matter of what? _Rotten luck_?” 

“No,” Blaise conceded. “It’s too much to be a coincidence.” He began to pace. 

“Could it have been Priddy?” Astoria asked. 

Blaise paused to look at her, considering. 

“He’s missing. Presumed dead,” she amended, “but still just missing. He knew about the arrangement with Rietveld. What if he had a fit of conscience?” 

Blaise shook his head. “No. Priddy doesn’t have a conscience.” 

“What if he was unhappy with his lot?” 

“He got everything he wanted.” They all had. Money. Power. But there was something else… “Priddy… Why would Malfoy target Priddy?” 

Astoria’s tone was sharp. “You said it wasn’t Draco. You said—” 

He waved her quiet. “Malfoy wouldn’t have known about the payoffs. His targets would have been limited to those directly connected to the case. Rietveld, obviously. He was the judge. Me as the prosecutor, also obvious. Brown, understandable. She shredded him in the papers. But Priddy… Priddy doesn’t fit.” 

“So, it’s not Draco.” She almost sounded dejected. 

Blaise stopped pacing, caught by a thought. “What if… What if it’s Granger?” 

Astoria waited half a breath before laughing. “_Hermione_ Granger? Don’t be absurd.” 

He lifted his chin in challenge. “Why not?” 

“The teacher’s pet in Hogwarts? The brains of the Golden Trio? The holier-than-thou, sanctimonious, do-gooder who would never break a rule?” 

“You didn’t know her,” Blaise said, voice dropping low. “She cursed a girl in my fifth year.” 

Astoria waved the memory away. “That girl… Marianne? Marietta? Whatever, I remember the story. She was a snitch.” 

“Granger’s smart enough to carry this off.” 

“Idiots kill one another all the time. And she has the same problem as Draco: no resources. She was disbarred, and Weasley left her. No money, no friends. Is she even in England anymore?” 

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about her since…” 

“And that’s another thing,” Astoria said with a snap, before the silence could stretch. “Why now? She’s had thirty years to come after you.” 

“_Us_,” Blaise corrected. 

They exchanged a glare. Astoria was good at writing herself out of their shared history, conveniently forgetting the role she played, the crimes she committed, and the blood on her hands, all so that they could indulge in the selfish, foolish pursuit of young love. 

“She doesn’t know about me,” Astoria whispered. 

“If she knows about Priddy, she knows about you.” 

She pursed her lips, running the numbers. Astoria’s intelligence shone when put to work in her own favor, her instinct for self-preservation astonishingly strong. 

“Let’s assume she does know. Let’s assume she killed these people. Magical Law Enforcement will want to know. But when they bring her in, she loses incentive to keep quiet. She’ll talk, and they’ll be required to investigate. Unless…” 

Blaise shook his head at her unspoken question. “I don’t know it like I used to. Jason Hayes is the department head. He arrested Malfoy, but I never brought him in. He was a useful idiot; I don’t trust him to work with us.” 

“Then we can’t go to the Ministry.” 

“Agreed.” 

“What if we talk to her?” 

“Granger?” 

“Don’t look so incredulous,” Astoria scoffed. “You said yourself that she’s intelligent. She’s doing this for a reason. Doing it _now_ for a reason. If we know her motive, we know her price.” 

“You’re suggesting we buy her silence?” 

“I’m suggesting that forcing her into it is no longer an effective strategy. She must want something, and we can give it to her.” 

“And if we can’t?” 

Astoria closed the space between them and draped her arms around his neck. “So pessimistic,” she said with a cat’s sly smile, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Besides, we know the solution if we can’t. You’ve already killed three girls. What’s one more?” 

A chill raced down Blaise’s spine. He rested his hands on her hips. 

“We need to understand the scale of the problem. We need to know what she knows and how she knows it. We need to be sure.” 

“Let’s pay her a visit. She can’t be too hard to find.” 

A second kiss lit a fire in his belly, a desire he thought had long faded. 

“We got lucky, her staying silent for so long.” He nuzzled the shell of Astoria’s ear and pulled her hips flush with his so that she could feel his arousal. 

“She was always a loose end.” Astoria let her head fall back, and Blaise took the invitation, trailing his lips down her neck, nibbling the tender skin where her pulse throbbed close to the surface. He backed her onto the desk. Her house robe fell open, and she spread her legs. 

“Let’s end it,” she whispered. “Let’s end it for good.”


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione sat hunched over her workbench, silver razor in hand. The past month and a half had been bad for business. Not that business was ever good, but the pursuit of justice had taken much more time than she had anticipated, and it had put her behind. It was nice to have a break, even a short one. 

She paused as the floorboards above her creaked. She glanced at the clock and shook her head. Five p.m. She did not know what kept Draco up so late. She routinely woke at two a.m. to use the loo and just as routinely found him pacing, sitting at the kitchen table, or absent entirely. Tempting though it was to ask, she refrained. The ghosts of his mind were not hers to decipher. 

A short exhale blew the shavings away from the wood’s surface. The wand’s pattern was simple: a series of crosshatched etchings that encircled the handle, providing additional grip on the fine-grained sycamore shaft. She did not consider herself an artist; her wands were ugly, inelegant things crafted for ugly, inelegant people. Her creativity was better applied to theoretical problems, not physical design. Still, it was a living. 

Her shop door tinkled, the candles flaring in response to the customers’ presence. She set the wand shaft into a holder, dusted herself off, and pushed past the divider curtain. 

Blaise Zabini stood in the shop’s center. Finger by finger, he peeled off thick leather gloves, laid them atop one another, and stowed them in his cloak’s pocket. Astoria Greengrass paced a circle around him, assessing Hermione’s wands with a derisive sneer. She kept her hands tucked into her cloak. Hermione had no doubt that her right hand gripped her wand. 

“Can I help you?” 

“I certainly hope so,” Blaise said with a smile. “It’s been a long time, Granger.” 

“It has.” 

“Been well?” 

Hermione gestured widely, steel slipping. “What do you think?” 

“Blaise…” Astoria clicked her tongue, mock-chiding. She ended her circle at his side, looped her left arm through his right. “There’s no reason we can’t be civil.” 

“Quite right, dearest,” he agreed, eyes never leaving Hermione. “I’d say we’ve been civil, wouldn’t you?” 

“Unfailingly polite.” 

“Could you say the same, Granger?” 

“Considering I haven’t yet thrown you out?” 

“We’re within your operating hours, according to the sign on your door. And we haven’t been disrespectful or damaged your wares. Why would you throw us out?” 

Hermione paused. She thought she had heard the creak of floorboards a moment ago, but there was nothing now. Draco knew to make himself scarce when she had customers; it was too much to hope that he was listening. They were not ready for this yet. This was not the plan. 

“Maybe I don’t want to service your kind here.” 

Astoria lifted a golden eyebrow. “Prejudice from a Mudblood?” Hermione’s inhale was sharp. She bit her tongue, but too late: Astoria had noticed the reaction, and her lips stretched into an unnatural smirk. “That’s rich.” 

“My reasons have nothing to do with blood, and you know it.” 

Blaise cocked his head. “Is that a confession, Granger?” 

“That’s an accusation, you idiot. Now get out of my shop before I call the law.” 

“I don’t think you will.” Blaise stepped forward; Astoria’s arm dropped. “I think that if we were to call the law, you would be in more trouble than you could fathom. I think that if Magical Law Enforcement were to search your premises, they would find some very interesting pieces of evidence.” He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, as if he knew Draco’s location. 

It was a bluff—it had to be—but being wrong was not worth the risk. 

“What do you want?” 

“To reminisce about old times. Perhaps right a few old wrongs. You were cut a raw deal, you know.” 

Hermione lifted her chin. “I wasn’t aware that a deal was being cut. I was just doing my job.” 

Blaise nodded. “And doing it admirably, I’m sure. Malfoy’s was a difficult case from the start. We were all surprised when you took it.” 

“He had no one else.” 

“He never deserved your dedication to his case.” 

“He paid me well for it.” 

“I’d say so,” Astoria snapped, earning a glare from Blaise. 

“Thirty years is a long time to stretch a fortune, even for a canny witch. Am I correct in guessing that your coffers have dwindled?” 

She did not dignify him with a response, just a deadpan look as his eyes skipped across her ill-kept store, her worn robes, her unstyled hair, and the dark bags beneath her eyes. 

“It doesn’t have to be this way. We can help each other.” 

“I don’t need your help.” 

“Of course not,” he relented at once. “You’re a successful entrepreneur; I would never consider yours a charity case. Think of it more as a business arrangement. A joint endeavor. I pay you a monthly fee. Say, 200 Galleons? That should be sufficient to cover rent and utilities. Any profit you make beyond that is yours to keep, naturally.” 

Hermione lifted an eyebrow. “And?” 

“And in return, you continue to live your _quiet_, humdrum life. You make your wands and stay out of the public eye. You forget any lingering questions or suspicions you might still harbor from Malfoy’s case all those years ago. You go your way, we go ours, and never the twain shall meet,” he finished with a rhythmic flourish. 

“If I refuse?” 

“I don’t see why you would.” 

“Well, I’ve never been one to _forget_. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to hold up my end of the bargain.” 

Blaise’s expression darkened. He advanced a step. “In that case, I will _make you forget_.” 

A flicker of movement behind him as Astoria drew her wand. Then, a series of silent spells. 

The slam-clunk of her shop door locking. 

The flapping of shades cutting off the dim November ambient. 

The whisper of candles extinguishing. 

The shop plunged into total darkness in less than a second. 

Hermione dropped to the floor as Blaise’s curse cut the air. She scuttled backwards into the workroom and rolled to the side, springing into a low crouch. She navigated the familiar space effortlessly despite the pitch black and plucked her wand off the workbench. She reached for her razor, but the tool was not where she expected it, and there was no time for further searching. She backed herself onto the stairs and pointed her wand before her. 

“_Lumos_!” 

Astoria’s charm lit the workroom like full sun, an amateur move that temporarily blinded them all. Hermione blinked her vision back. Following the sound of her panicked scramble, Blaise had stumbled around her workbench and waited, squinting, five feet away. Astoria stood inside the divider curtain, wand pointed at the floor, left hand shielding her eyes. 

Draco unpeeled himself from the corner, the silver razor clutched in his fist. 

“_Imperio_!” 

A second consciousness entered Hermione’s own, accompanied by adrenaline’s intoxicating rush. She stood, mind buzzing, power tingling along her skin like electricity. 

“_Watch_,” she whispered. Blaise turned, obedient to her every whim. 

“Blaise? Wha—” 

Astoria’s question dissolved into a choked cry as Draco grabbed her from behind. His face was contorted into a mask of vengeful fury as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held the razor to her neck. 

“Did you miss me?” he hissed between bared teeth. 

Astoria’s blue eyes rolled, widening in horror as they landed upon the ghoulish face of her first husband. 

“Draco… Draco, I—” 

The razor pressed deep, scoring a line that wept blood. 

“Did it feel like this, Zabini?” 

Hermione walked Blaise closer, keeping her wand aimed steadily as she mirrored his approach on the opposite side of the workbench. 

“When you cut the throats of those three little girls, did you feel the same rush? The same excitement in your gut?” 

“_Answer_,” Hermione hissed. 

“No,” he said. 

“_Be honest_.” 

“Yes.” 

Draco’s lips cracked a horrible smile. He turned his gaze back to Astoria. 

“I loved you once.” Tears slipped from her eyes as he pressed his lips to her cheek in a poor imitation of a kiss. “Did you ever love me?” 

The pressure on her neck abated. 

“No.” 

He sighed, but smiled, a genuine ease crossing his features. 

“At least you’re honest.” 

He dug the razor in deep and tore it across her throat. Arterial spray arced from her neck, splattering the walls and ceiling of the workroom; drenching Blaise’s face and chest; spotting her tools, her table, her in process wands; dripping down onto the bare wood floor. 

Chest heaving, Draco let go. Astoria’s corpse fell to the floor with a sick thud, her skull cracking as it struck. Draco held the razor out, handle first, to Blaise. 

“_Take it_.” 

He did. 

“I hope she was worth it.” 

“_Be honest_.” 

“She wasn’t,” Blaise answered. 

Draco smiled again and shook his head. “Women rarely are.” 

Hermione did not need to verbalize the command. Blaise took the razor and drove it into his gut, once, twice, stabbing faster and faster until blood soaked his cloak and the stink of perforated bowel filled the workroom. He fell to his knees, and Hermione released the spell, staggering backwards at the sudden loss. 

He looked up at them, confused, miserable. His paling lips gaped, trying to form words, and then he collapsed, falling forward into a puddle of his and Astoria’s blood. 

All was still. 

Hermione did not know how long she stared at the cooling corpses, waiting to feel. She had imagined this moment, dreamt it on her darkest nights, but never considered its reality until Draco had pressed a knife to her throat two months ago. Even then, the deaths of Astoria and Blaise had felt impossible, protected as they were by status and wealth. 

Even those were no guards against fear, she supposed. Human nature was keyed toward self-preservation. The conservation of the norm. Threatening that had driven them to action, but they had underestimated their adversaries. Given too little credence to the burn of injustice and the desire for retribution. 

A mistake they could never make again. 

“Granger.” 

Hermione looked up at Draco. Drying gore stained the creases of his skin, his hands, his arms, his face. He looked lost. His singular purpose had been achieved, and she realized that he had never thought beyond this moment. He had never considered a life after vengeance. 

“We have one night,” she said. “No one will notice them missing until tomorrow morning, when Zabini doesn’t arrive for work. We need to be gone before then.” 

“Where?” 

“Out of the United Kingdom. Somewhere without extradition. Egypt, maybe. By the sea.” 

He nodded and walked past her, trudging up the stairs. The shower turned on. 

She knelt and rifled through their pockets, nicking their purses and relieving them of their valuables. Astoria’s wedding ring fit nicely on her finger; Blaise’s pocket watch would do for Draco. Both could be pawned if required, though Hermione did not think they would need to stoop that low. 

She collected her best wands, stacking the boxes and carrying them upstairs. She added them to a carpetbag that she had spelled with an Undetectable Extension Charm, along with their clothes, her books, and whatever food would not spoil. When Draco exited the shower, scrubbed and shaved, she was ready to go. 

He followed her out of the shop. She locked it up, then set her carpetbag down and drew her wand. 

“Any last words?” 

He shook his head. The moon had risen, its pale light hinting at life behind his grey eyes, which at present were trained sightlessly on the dingy two-storey. 

A series of silent Reductors had weakened the shop’s foundations. A final curse applied to the cornerstone sent it tumbling, its dry beams cracking like bones, decades of dust spewing into the air, as if coughed by infected lungs. Another curse set its remains on fire. 

Hermione held out her hand. 

Draco took it. 

Together, they disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Line from _Sweeney Todd_: "By the sea." It's the title of a song about the life Mrs. Lovett imagines for her and Todd. Very catchy indeed. 
> 
> For reference, the exchange rate on one Galleon is $6.64 USD or £4.93 GBP (per Google.)


	8. Epilogue

The Magical Accidents and Catastrophes personnel had never seen anything like it. 

The call had been received five minutes after midnight, but the fire looked as though it had been burning for hours. Strange, bluebell-shaped flames fluttered over the razed structure, resisting every water-dousing or oxygen-depriving charm they threw at it. Some compared it to Fiendfyre, erroneously, as the conflagration did not spread. The shops on either side had been evacuated as a precaution nonetheless, but there was nothing that could be done. The remediation crew simply watched as the fire consumed itself. 

By daybreak, the smoldering had ceased. Recovery crews in protective garments swarmed the wreckage like insects, picking over the charred detritus and shoveling the ash. 

A shout went up when the first long bone was uncovered, and the scene was cleared for the Remains Recovery specialist that had arrived with the MAC team. Her work was slow, methodical, but by sunset, she had made her pronouncement. 

Two sets of remains: one man, one woman, both in their early sixties. The fire had burned hot and long enough to destroy any identifying characteristics such as skin, hair, or eye color, and their skulls had been pulverized from the building’s collapse, making identification through dental records impossible. However, the building’s registration was current. 

The _Daily Prophet_’s on-scene reporter relayed the information by Patronus to his editor in downtown London. 

That evening, the wizarding world mourned the loss of the once-great Hermione Granger and the anonymous man who had died by her side. 

**The End**


End file.
